Inseparable
by Fictatious
Summary: An exploration of France and England's relationship from the first days of the English monarchy to the dispute of the French one. And it seems to have turned into a 100-Years' War fic... uh, crap. It's gonna be a long one.


**Series:** Hetalia  
**Title:** Inseparable  
**Author:** Fictatious  
**Character(s):** small France and England  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Warnings:** sex and violence!  
**Summary:** An exploration of France and England's relationship from the first days of the English monarchy to the dispute of the French one. And it seems to have turned into a 100-Years' War fic... uh, crap. It's gonna be a long one.

...

1067

It took a great and concentrated effort to keep from squealing with childish excitement when Francis set eyes upon the tiny little nation standing along side of the party of thoroughly uninteresting nobles. He was holding the hand of his nurse, who was dressed finely for the occasion as if she was a lady in waiting. It seemed like Francis had to stand there, poised and dignified, through _hours_ of boring, long-winded speeches, strung together in an endless chain of boring, long-winded dialogue between his king and the visiting sovereign, when all he wanted to do was run over and pick up the tiny England and pinch his fat little cheeks. But this was a very formal occasion and Francis had to be on his best, formal behavior and act just as he'd been taught in his etiquette classes.

He watched as the little boy went to stick his fingers in his mouth. The nurse caught his hand and pulled it back down to his side, whispering to him. England looked as irritated and bored as Francis felt. The nurse carefully kept his squirming and fidgeting in check through the eternity of political talk and finally there was some movement as the visiting king stepped to the side and gestured towards little England. The tiny nation flushed bright red and looked completely overwhelmed when all the eyes in the room were focused on him, and he appeared to fight with his nurse a bit as she coaxed him to walk forward and bow his head.

'I'm Engwand,' he mumbled very quietly, squirming in place and Francis had to fight _very_ hard to keep his feet planted where they were, next to his king's thrown, and not run over and scoop the adorable child up in his arms. The nurse whispered to him and the little boy bowed clumsily. 'I wook fowwo'd to haveen' good we'ations'ips and twadeen' wiss Fwanss.'

Francis raised his hand to his mouth and bit his first knuckle to keep from squealing or giggling. It was just so _cute!_ He was practically shaking with the effort. His king smiled kindly at the little foreign nation and stood, giving him a slight bow. 'Your friendship is welcomed, England. I hope that this will be a fruitful relationship for both our peoples.' He then turned and looked at Francis, who quickly lowered his hand and took a few steps forward before bowing.

'I am the country of France and I also look forward to trade and alliance with the English,' he said formally and then stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back and willing the formality to end quickly.

And his wish was miraculously granted when his king addressed him. 'Francis, why don't you show England your menagerie. I think he has had enough of listening to old men talk.'

'Oui, Majesté,' Francis said with a bow and all but skipped over to the little island-country, holding out his hand. 'Have you ever seen a monkey, mon petite?' he asked, smiling as England backed shyly into his nurse's legs and reached to put his fingers in his mouth.

The nurse knelt down, keeping his hand from his mouth again, and gave him a gentle push towards Francis, whispering to him in a coarse, strange language. He hesitantly reached his hand out and placed it in Francis', looking a little frightened. Francis smiled wider, closing his hand around England's and towing him along out of the hall with the nurse following a few steps behind.

Once he was sure they were totally out of hearing range he turned and grabbed the boy under the arms, hoisting him into the air and spinning around while letting out a pent-up squeal. 'Ah! You are so CUTE!' England yelped in surprise and then looked as though he might burst into frightened tears when Francis pulled him against his chest and hugged him. 'Just _adorable!_'

The nurse had stepped forward a bit, looking surprised and worried, but her expression softened and she relaxed as she watched Francis lavish affection on the small child. England, however, did indeed burst into tears and started squirming in Francis' arms. 'Oh, mon petite, don't cry!' Francis cooed, shifting the boy's legs around his waist so that he could balance him comfortably and look into his chubby little face. 'I didn't mean to frighten you! I am just so excited to have such a cute little brother!'

'... B-bwoddow?' England asked as he wiped his pudgy little hands across his cheeks and looked up at Francis with his fuzzy, sprawling eyebrows pulled together.

'That's right,' Francis said, smiling down at him and starting to walk up the hallway again. 'You and I are alike! We're different from the other people around us like the kings and your nurse,' he nodded back towards the nurse, who was following along at a polite distance. 'Can you feel that we are alike?'

England nodded slowly and looked back at his nurse. She smiled at him. '... You feeow wike Scott,' he said slowly and chewed on his lip for a moment. 'But he zis scawy.'

'Oooh, you poor thing!' Francis simpered, hugging England and nuzzling his hair. 'Those nasty Celts are so uncivilized! It's terrible that you are _surrounded_ by them! But don't worry, big-brother Francis will do his very best to take care of you!'

'Fwan-siss,' the child mumbled.

'That's right, mon petite,' he kissed England's forehead and the boy gave him a disgruntled look. 'Is there another name that your people call you at home?'

His funny eyebrows pulled together again and he shook his head. 'I'm Engwand...'

'Do you know what my people call you?' Francis asked.

'Ango- Angotwee,' he said as he lifted his little hand and finally managed to stick his fingertips in his mouth without interference.

Francis bit his bottom lip for a moment and tried to restrain himself before giving up and squishing the little boy in a crushing hug and wailing, '_You are so CUTE!_'

England squeaked a bit but didn't try to squirm away, and when Francis loosened his grip again, the child chose to stay leaning against his shoulder and sucking on his fingers. Francis ruffled his fingers through the messy blond hair and mused, "I'll give you a name then, something for me to call my cute little brother. How is that?" England's face turned up a bit to look at him curiously, and then he gave a little nod. "How about Ange? That's easy to remember because it's so close to the start of Angleterre."

The boy considered it for a moment and then gave another little nod, a shy smile forming around his soggy fingers.

A/N: _Ange_ = Angel

1307

The wedding had been soooo tedious. The bishop had talked _forever_ and everybody had to stand still the whole time. England had been worried he might go mad from boredom and the aching of his feet. It was _awful_ to stand in one place without moving about, and it wasn't as though he didn't have to do that quite regularly, but normally it didn't last for soooo long. And when he'd started to shuffle his feet a bit, fearing that they'd lost sensation entirely, Francis had pinched his arm. He cast a dirty look up at the older country and then had to bite back a giggle as Francis stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth and mad a silly face at him, just for the briefest moment, before falling back into perfect composure and attentiveness.

Finally the ceremony ended, and suddenly all the formality and pomp shifted into jubilant (and soon to be drunken) revelry. England kept tight hold of Francis' hand, afraid of being swept apart in the tide of attendees moving from the chapel to the dining hall. 'Ange, you were so _fidgety!_' Francis giggled next to his ear as they wove their way through the crowd, trying to find their seats.

'I couldn't help it!' England whined. 'I can't stand still for that long!'

Francis laughed and pecked him on the cheek, which made England's face get all hot and he scrubbed at the spot with his hand, feeling awkward and irritated for some reason. He'd liked Francis' kisses when he was younger, but this time, when Francis had come along with his princess for the wedding (that was just an excuse, of course, he'd really come to visit England) the kisses had been making him feel very embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Francis didn't seem to notice and pulled him along over to the main table, where they sat close to the royal couple. England didn't care that much, frankly he would rather have been in a less conspicuous spot, but he was pleased that he got to sit next to Francis through the loud, overblown feast. After all the royals and lordlings had consumed enough alcohol that it was no longer a formal event, Francis started a tickling-battle and England fell out of his chair laughing and trying to fight back.

Francis abandoned his chair and caught England around the waist, pulling him up from the floor while he still giggled madly and struggled. 'I've had enough of this party, Ange. You?' Francis asked next to his ear and England nodded. He held France's hand tightly as they made their escape. The upper halls of the palace were quite deserted, everybody was either drinking away in the dining hall or fetching and serving up the wine that was being drunk. England and Francis charged through the empty, dimly lit hallways, laughing out loud and shouting in a way his governess would have boxed his ears for if she heard him.

An official race was never declared, but England still felt that he had won when he reached the door to his chambers first and jerked himself to a halt by catching the handle. He giggled between pants and then laughed harder when Francis grabbed him from behind and pulled him up off his feet. 'No! No!' he laughed, flailing but being careful not to kick Francis' shins. "You lost! You lost! I'm the winner!"

'Lost?' Francis asked, sounding incredulous and then pressing a firm kiss to England's flushed cheek. 'But I caught you, Ange!'

'That wasn't the game!' England protested through his laughter, letting go of the door handle and giving up on struggling.

'Oh no? Maybe we are playing different games, mon petite,' Francis giggled into his hair and then set him back on his feet.

'You're just saying that because you lost!' England declared and pushed his door open.

'And you think I didn't let you win? My legs are longer, _tres petite._'

'Then maybe we'll have to play cards to see who the winner is,' England suggested, grinning.

'But what if I don't want to play cards, petite?' Francis challenged with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

'That's because you know I'll win!' England giggled.

'Or because cards are _boring_.' Francis waved his hand dismissively.

'You're just saying that because you don't want to loose!' England accused, pointing his finger.

'I'm saying it,' Francis corrected, smiling foxishly and leaning down to circle his arms around England's shoulders, 'because I don't want to put a table between you and I.'

England opened his mouth to continue the argument but was startled to find Francis' lips were right there on top of his. He squeaked in surprise and found himself being pulled in closer. He felt his face heating up and the embarrassed, uncomfortable feeling was ten times stronger than it had been any of the times Francis had kissed his cheeks. England was quite shocked when he realized that there was a tongue in his mouth and it _wasn't his_. He didn't pull back, nor did he push Francis away; he held very still and tried to work out what was happening.

Francis had his eyes closed, he noticed. He supposed that it _was_ difficult to focus when their faces were so close together. Trying to was giving him a headache, so he closed his eyes as well and noticed that he was suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. Francis' tongue tickled, but strangely, this tickling didn't make him scrunch up reflexively and jerk away like when Francis had attacked him during the feast. But it did give him the urge to giggle. So he did, and his lips came away from Francis' a fraction as his head leaned forward in the giggle. Francis laughed too and leaned his forehead against England's.

'Do you like that?' he asked.

'That's a grown-up kiss,' England said, because he wasn't quite sure how to answer the question at hand.

'Yes it is,' Francis agreed, and dropped his arms from England's shoulders, instead catching their hands together and walking backwards, tugging England along with him.

'They kissed like that for the wedding.' England grinned at the clever comparison. He giggled. 'It's your princess, and my king, and it's almost like _we're_ married!'

'It is indeed, Ange,' Francis agreed, smiling at him. He glanced behind him as he neared England's bed and then sat down on the edge they reached it and tugged England up on top of him.

'I'm too big to sit in laps anymore,' England protested, frowning.

'You have to do it differently,' Francis explained. 'If you sat with your legs across sideways like when you were little, then you would be too heavy, but if you face me and put a knee on each side then they support some of the weight and it's okay.'

England was rather surprised by how well that did seem to work and looked curiously at their legs and how neatly they fit before looking back up and bumping noses with Francis. He blinked and then brightened with realization. 'Oh, it's for kissing!' he said, feeling quite smart and then paused as he realized that meant they were probably going to be kissing some more and he felt his face get hot again at that thought.

'It is. Very good, petite,' Francis praised and nuzzled England's ear. That felt nice; not strange and confusing the way the grown-up kiss had, just soft and warm and a little bit ticklish. England sighed, closing his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of Francis' breath on his neck accompanied by a little kiss against his ear. 'You're getting tall, Ange,' Francis murmured and kissed his neck.

'I'm gaining on you,' England agreed smugly. 'I'll be taller than you, wait and see.' Francis chuckled and kissed his mouth again. It was ticklish and weird again, but England decided that perhaps he did like it after all, even if it was strange. He wondered if Francis had gotten the idea from the wedding. 'Hey, why are you so kissy now?' he asked when there was a gap in the kisses.

'Because I like you, Ange,' Francis replied easily. 'And I like touching you.'

'But you always liked me, didn't you?' England tilted his head a little. 'You didn't kiss me like that before.'

'Because you were a baby,' Francis giggled and pressed a short, regular kiss against his lips. 'You said this is a grown-up kiss, non?' He demonstrated with another longer, deeper kiss.

That made sense. 'It feels weird though,' England said quietly when Francis' lips moved back again. He leaned forward a little, as though chasing the retreating kiss for a moment and was rewarded with another.

'What's weird, petite?' Francis whispered at the next break.

'I keep being too hot...' England frowned and moved his arms to curl around Francis' neck as he was pulled a bit closer. 'And my heart is too fast, like I'm running fast, but not...' He closed his eyes while Francis combed his hair back with his fingers and pressed a kiss against his forehead. 'It's when you touch me or sometimes when you look at me and I feel embarrassed for no reason...'

'I noticed, petite,' Francis crooned, tugging on England's tunic and pulling it up. England raised his arms almost automatically before noticing that this was kind of strange. 'You've been so terribly flushed.' He pulled the tunic off over England's head and for some reason England felt hotter once it had been taken off.

He squished in on himself a little and hugged his arms around his chest feeling self-conscious, which didn't make sense because Francis had seen him without a tunic before. Francis had seen him quite naked; he often had wanted to give England baths when they were together, rather than letting his nurses or servants do it as usual. England frowned at the bizarre strangeness of this entire situation and had a totally unreasonable urge to cry; it just seemed as though he were being completely overwhelmed but there wasn't any good _reason_ for it. A whine slipped from his mouth without permission and he felt even hotter with embarrassment. 'Why am I so _awkward_ suddenly!'

Francis chuckled softly and kissed his forehead. 'Because you're growing up, mon petite,' he explained. 'Growing up feels very embarrassing for a little while. And it feels most especially embarrassing when you're with someone you like.'

'... That's not fair...' England mumbled and leaned his forehead against Francis's shoulder, as though hiding his over-heated face could banish the uncomfortable feeling. 'How come _you_ don't have to be embarrassed?' he sulked.

''I'm older than you, petite,' Francis reminded, running his hands softly up and down England's back. 'I've known for a long time that you're the one I love most.'

Despite the heat in his cheeks and ears, which didn't abate in the least, England shivered. He turned his head a bit so that his cheek rested against Francis' collarbone, and gazed off, unfocused, vaguely watching Francis' sleeve moving as he stroked England's back. '... I love you the most too,' he said quietly. 'I wish I could be with you all the time.'

Francis' arms tightened and pulled their bodies even closer and he made a small sigh through his nose. One arm moved a moment later, the hand going to cup England's cheek and then guiding his face up a bit so Francis could kiss his mouth again. This one lasted for a long time and it seemed like Francis must be surveying to draw up a detailed topographic chart of his mouth, but it was pleasant... not gross like England would have thought such a situation would be.

'Let's sleep together, Ange,' Francis whispered, their lips still against each other's.

'Like the king and your princess?' England mumbled, not opening his eyes. He felt warm all over now, not just his face, but it wasn't unpleasant anymore.

Francis chuckled softly. 'I don't think you're old enough for that, Ange,' he said and kissed England again, a shorter kiss this time.

'Hm?' England frowned, confused by the contradictory-seeming statements.

'... They're trying to make a baby. An heir for your throne.'

'Oh.' England nodded; that made sense. He knew that babies had something to do with marriage-beds.

'But I should like to sleep here with you and hold you,' Francis murmured, nuzzling England's ear, 'and kiss you.'

'Yeah...' England nodded again.

1337

'No,' France said in a quiet voice, glaring at the king. No. Just _Philip_. This man was _not_ his king. Where the hell did this Valois scum get the idea that he could act like France was his _toy?_ It wasn't _fair_. A Capet never would have done something like this to him.

Philip sighed and looked irritated. 'It is not a choice we have to make, Francis. It is necessary. England has forced our hand by allying with these _rebels_. The English crown is looking to steal your throne.'

_Much like you have?_ Francis thought darkly. 'I refuse. I do not want to go to war with England,' Francis spoke in a low, closed voice, nearly saying the words through his teeth.

Philip's eyes flashed with anger and he stood up, glaring down at Francis. '_You_ do not have a choice!' he half-shouted. 'You think of nothing but childish sentimentality! This is not a decision for a _boy_ to make! I am your king and you will do as I tell you!/i'

'YOU ARE NOT MY KING!' Francis screamed back at him, glaring openly and reveling in the shocked, furious look on Philip's face.

'Lock him away! I don't want to look at him!' Philip shouted at his guards and they moved forward. Francis felt the urge to bolt, try to outrun the guards, but he knew that would be useless. A king can go into exile, run from his country, but a country can not run from his king. And so he let himself be escorted away and locked in his room. Half of him wanted to apologize, beg for forgiveness, do as Philip said because he didn't know what else _to_ do. The other half of him wanted to bury the man.

He wanted his _real_ kings back.

1340

England stood amongst the shrouds, a knee hooked through and one arm gripping tightly to hold himself steady while the other hand shaded his eyes from the sun, scanning the other ships and straining his eyes to try and see more clearly. Francis was here, he could feel it. The French ships had formed defensive lines and were waiting for the attack. As they grew closer and closer, England searched desperately through the figures onboard, but there were just too many.

'England! England, get down from there! We'll be in shooting range soon!' the queen shouted at him from the deck, a firm hold on Prince Edward beside her. 'You must come inside now!'

'But...' England started to protest, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and so, begrudgingly, he climbed down the shrouds. The queen grabbed his arm and hurried both boys into the cabin. 'I- I want to see...' England mumbled, resisting a little at the door.

'Oh, me too, Mama! I want to see too!' Prince Edward exclaimed, bouncing.

'Absolutely not!' the queen snapped. 'It's far too dangerous out there for boys.'

'_I'm_ not a _boy_,' England protested, but went inside the cabin so that the eldest prince would as well. 'I _should_ be fighting! It's my right!'

'England, we can not afford to loose you!' the queen insisted, handing the prince off to one of her ladies and looking England in the eye. 'You have to realize how important you are. We don't know what would _happen_ to you out there.'

'Your Majesty, your husband is fighting and you are worried about _me!_ Please be logical! I've lived more than two-hundred years! It is unthinkable that an _arrow_ could fell a nation!'

'I will not hear of it, England!' the queen snapped.

'I am not your _child!_' England shouted, and then felt a pang of guilt at the hurt look that crossed the queen's face. 'Your Majesty, my heart and my life is with my king and my people,' he said in a gentler voice, taking her hands in his. 'It is by protecting your children here that you insure my future and it is by fighting with my people that I protect myself.'

The queen bit her lip, looking down. 'You're too young, England,' she said quietly. 'You're too small to even pull a long-bow.'

'I need to be with my soldiers,' England said, squeezing her hands. 'You _know_ I'm not a child.'

She nodded slowly. 'Yes.'

He leaned down and kissed the queen's hands before letting them go. 'Protect my prince. One day he must lead me.' With that, England pulled away from her and returned to the deck. The guards outside the cabin door looked at him with raised eyebrows but he ignored them, going to find his king on the quarter-deck.

'England,' King Edward III greeted him with a raised eyebrow. 'Shouldn't you be with my family?'

'No, your Majesty,' England said quietly, taking his place next to the monarch. 'I must be with my king and my people.'

The king considered him for a while and then nodded. 'You are a great nation, England,' he said, looking forward again, towards the French line, 'and I will see that you grow even greater.' Voices of the French could be heard across the water now and the king's eyes hardened as he took a deep breath and bellowed to his archers. 'READY!'

...

It was getting quieter now. There were still sounds of steel on steel in the distance, but close by the activity seemed to have slowed. People were around him, speaking English, Flemish and French, moving quickly, shouting, pushing bodies into the sea. Francis shivered and coughed, unable to rid his mouth of the taste of salt. The bindings on his wrists and ankles bit into the flesh and chafed. The puddle of seawater he'd been coughing up irritated the side of his face that was marinating in it.

'There's something wrong with him,' a voice said above him. 'Why is he doing that?'

'Can't know what strange things these fae-children will do. We should get him to the king.'

'Do you think we can get across now?'

'Aye. The five of us should be able to get through. The fighting's mostly over.'

Francis groaned miserably as he was lifted off the deck and slung over a shoulder. His body ached with the frigid cold. He wished the sun would hurry up and rise, sweep away the predawn gray surrounding them, and breathe some heat into his body. His eyes, his limbs, every part of his body felt so heavy and half-numb. He watched through blurry, unfocused eyes as a blood-stained deck passed below him and then there was a jolt as the man carrying him jumped to the next ship. There was a body floating in the space between the two hulls, half an arrow sticking up from it, but the sight was quickly gone as more blood-stained deck went past.

Three ships on, there was a shout and Francis was dropped on the deck. He yelped and whimpered, curling in on himself and sobbing softly as a fight raged next to him. French voices were screaming at his captors, it sounded like only two of them, and against his escort of five, they were quickly dispatched. Francis felt an ache in his gut at the sickening sounds of men dying behind him. He was pulled up off the deck again; it was a different man carrying him this time, the tunic a dull orange.

He was dropped to reddened decks three times more and he lost count of how many ships passed under him and how many bodies, and pieces of bodies, he saw in the spaces between as he was transferred. Sometimes he would stay draped over a shoulder as the man carrying him jumped the distance, sometimes being tossed between two or three of them, each time being jostled and squished, making his body ache more and more as he continued to cough up seawater and sob with pain and humiliation.

The men talked and shouted around him, giving instructions to each other as they moved down the line, and eventually one of them shouted loudly, 'My king! My king!'

Another jump from ship to ship and as Francis was trying to recover from the shoulder being pushed into his gut again, he heard a voice that made his eyes flutter open fully and he twisted, trying to catch sight of the person calling out to him.

'FRANCIS!'

'Ange...' he whimpered, listening to running feet pounding across the wooden deck.

'Hey now, what's this?' the man carrying him demanded, sounding irritated.

'Give him to me!' England's voice, too deep but still he couldn't not recognize it, demanded.

England's demand was repeated and somewhere farther on there was a shout that seemed to make the man give in. 'All right, all right, hang on,' he grumbled as Francis was pulled off the shoulder and dropped to the deck more slowly than the previous times.

'Francis!' England's worried face came into view and there were gentle hands supporting him. A moment later, the ligatures on his wrists were cut away, then his ankles. 'Francis...' England's hands were back, pulling him up off the deck, against England's warm body. 'What did you _do_ to him?!' He looked up at someone out of Francis' line of sight, his face was accusing.

'Nothing!' the man's voice protested. 'He took ill during the fight. When we realized who he was, we tied him and kept an eye on him, but he just kept getting sicker. He's been coughing up seawater for hours but he never went in. He's only wet where he's spit-up on himself.'

England looked down at him again, a hand gently stroking Francis' cheek. 'Francis...' he whispered, and Francis blearily noticed that England's face was not nearly as round as the last time he'd seen it. 'What's wrong? Please tell me...'

'... S-s cold...' Francis whimpered, making the great effort to lift his arm so that he could put it around England and pull their bodies closer, trying to glean as much warmth and comfort as possible from the younger nation.

'What's wrong with him?' England asked desperately, looking up to someone behind him.

'I can only guess it's to do with how many Frenchman have drown or been cut down today,' a man's voice said somewhere out of Francis' line of sight. 'Civil war must be devastating to beings such as you and he.'

England's eyes returned to Francis', unshed tears making them bright. 'Francis...' he pulled Francis closer against him for a few minutes. 'I'll take care of you...' he promised and then shifted, clumsily getting to his feet and bringing Francis up with him, Francis' left arm pulled around his shoulders. 'We just have to get over there, just one ship over, and we'll get you warm,' England said, gripping his waist firmly.

'Yeah...' Francis whispered, moving his feet, which felt like lead, and leaning against England as he stumbled along. 'Y-you're tall... Ange...' he observed, noticing that he was not bent over as he leaned on England.

'I grew a lot suddenly,' England replied and then started to pull away from him. 'Can you stand a minute? Hang on, I'll pull-- Oh damnit!' he cursed as Francis' knees buckled and slammed down on the deck. Larger hands came around behind Francis and pulled him back up. 'Y-your Majesty--'

'Here, you get up there and pull him up,' the voice from before instructed and then Francis found himself being lifted as England crouched over the side of the taller ship and held out his arms to Francis. Francis reached out and wrapped his arms around England's neck as England's fastened behind his back and the man on the smaller ship pushed him upwards, helping England haul him onto the higher deck.

'All right,' England panted a little as he pulled Francis back against him and started walking again. 'Almost there.'

The ship was smaller, less grand, than the Genoa galleys. England lead him to the doors into the upper cabin, which were being guarded by a pair of soldiers.

'England!' a woman exclaimed and rushed over to them. 'What happened? Who is this?'

'He's Francis,' England answered, guiding him towards one of the inner rooms. 'He's really cold, I have to get him warm,' he said.

The woman's hands touched Francis's face and then she recoiled as though burned. 'Oh Good Lord, he is,' she whispered. 'Beth, Beth, put a brick on the stove!' she demanded and then took Francis' free arm and helped England pull him into a small state-room and ease him down onto the bed. 'He needs dryer clothes. England, get your extra tunic.'

'I've got it.'

'Can you manage? Beth can help you,' the woman asked, moving back towards the door.

'I'm fine. Thank you, Your Majesty,' England answered, casting her a quick smile before turning back to Francis.

'All right. If you need anything,' the woman, England's queen, said as she left.

'Thank you, Your Majesty,' England said again as the door shut. He set the clean, dry tunic on the bed beside Francis and started working his belt loose. "How did you get so damp?" The question sounded somewhat rhetorical.

'Keep vomiting sea-water,' Francis mumbled, pushing himself up off the bed for a moment to get his tunic up so that he could pull it off over his head.

'How do you get half-drowned without touching the water?' England pushed the dry tunic over him and Francis' arms struggled to find their way out of the sleeves while England dropped and started pulling at his shoes.

'My people... They went in the water. You didn't feel anything?'

'... Yeah... I did... It aches, and I have the taste in my mouth, but, oh God, Francis, you look _awful_.' England looked again like he might start crying as he gazed up at Francis from the floor.

'I'll get better,' Francis assured, trying to smile. 'This is the worst of it.'

England bit his lip and nodded. 'Get under the covers,' he said. He crawled in next to Francis and pressed close in the small bunk. 'Are you any warmer?'

'Maybe...' Francis wrapped his heavy arms around England and tucked his face into the nook between England's neck and the pillow.

'I'll take care of you now,' England whispered next to his ear. 'We've got you away from those awful Valois, it'll be over soon and- and we can stay together. All the time. We can be together whenever we want now, we have the same king.'

Francis sighed. It sounded nice, having England with him, sharing his bed, every night. But part of him rebelled against the idea; did Edward III have any more claim than Philip? He was Isabella's son, but could the throne really pass through the hands of a woman?

1345

'_Ah!_' England arched, pressing wantonly against Francis, senses reeling, almost painfully, but wanting more so badly. 'Aaah!'

'_Mmm! Ange!_' Francis moaned against his neck, pushing into him, withdrawing, pushing again. Again. Again. Again. Faster. Faster. '_Ange!_'

'_Yes yes yes!_' England threw back his head, eyes squeezing shut tight as the sensations pummeled him like waves smashing into rock, colliding with erosive force.

'_Ange! Haah!_' Francis had hit his peak too; his thrusts becoming erratic and imprecise as he was carried over. '_Mon amour! Hhuh! Hah!_' And then he started to come down, motion slowing, drawing to a halt, panting like he'd run a marathon. '_Amour... toujours mon amour... Ange_.' He let himself collapse over England, tucking his face against England's neck and trying to catch his breath from there.

England wrapped his arms around Francis' back, holding tightly as they gasped together. His left leg, bent up and braced to position his hips, ached and protested being made to keep the position now, with Francis' weight baring down on him completely, but England ignored it, too engrossed by the older nation's lingering presence inside of him to cut the moment short.

After a long, sweet pause, when their breathing had slowed somewhat, Francis drew himself up a bit and pulled back, breaking that intimate connection and then settling on his side and pulling England tightly against him, breath soft and warm against his neck. 'I love you...' England sighed next to his ear and Francis responded by squeezing his shoulder. They lay there in comfortable silence for a long time as their breath returned to a steady pattern and their bodies cooled, before the stickiness became an irritation that could not be ignored.

The towel that had been laid under England's hips and thighs earlier was used and discarded over the side of the bed, to deal with later, and Francis gathered up the duvet and pulled it over the two of them before settling back down in England's arms and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. His forehead rested next to England's ear and soft, warm breath through his nose feathered over England's neck.

'... I want to fight with you...' Francis whispered, his hand finding England's and lacing their fingers together.

'You know you can't...' England squeezed. 'However mislead they may be, the people we'll be fighting are still part of you...'

'I know...' Francis pulled himself a little tighter against England. 'But I should be able to save myself from an incompetent usurper...'

'You know I'll never think less of you for it.' England turned a bit to kiss Francis' forehead. 'You've always protected me. It's only fair that I should have the chance to pay that debt back.'

'You won't give up on me?'

'Never.' He combed his fingers through Francis' long hair and nuzzled him. 'We'll be together forever, with the same king, and nothing can ever separate us again.'

Francis sighed and burrowed his face in against England's neck. He mumbled something that sounded like 'I love you' and England held him tightly savoring this moment and confident that there would be many more to come.

...

A/N: So aside from the first two scenes, this so far has been taking place in the Edwardian Wars, which is the beginning of the 100-Year's War cycle. At this point it is not so much a war between two nations as it is a civil war. It is not yet France vs. England but France vs. England + the other half of France. Location location location has given the House of Valois and Philip VI an advantage in securing the capitol of France, and they've called on the Salic Laws (old French laws from the early middle-ages) to claim their right to the French thrown over the House of Plantaginate/Anjou because the old laws said that a woman can't inherit the throne and the last king of the House of Capet, Charles IV, only had a daughter. That daughter, Isabella, had married Edward II of England, making Edward III much more closely related to the House of Capet, thus being the basis of his claim over the French throne. Edward III gained a lot of support from French nobles early in the Edwardian Wars because he was seen as much more kingly than Philip VI, because Edward liked to run headlong into battle, personally leading his army, and fight until he was so broke he couldn't feed his troops, whereas Philip went 'Gah! This is expensive!' and tried to make treaties whenever possible.

Yes, Edward III's family really was on the war ships with him when they sailed into battle. Also, maybe it sounded weird that they were running across multiple ships, but at this point in time canons and guns do not yet exist and so naval combat is shooting arrows between the ships when they're far apart and then for the larger part of the battle, running the ships up next to each other and fighting close-range.

For the first scene here, I see England as being about 4 and France as 13-14. Second scene I put England at 11-12 and France at 17ish. Third time-skip France is about the same and England is now 14-15ish. There's just a 5-year time-skip between the last two scenes, but I'm going to say that England is now about 16 because winning the Battle of Sulys gave England a pretty big bump up. We're still not done with the Edwardian Wars (we've only really gotten past the first round of fighting...) but this was getting pretty darn big already, so I decided I should probably find a stopping-point and post this chunk now. So this is the beginning of the Hundred-Year War (which was not actually 100 years nor a continuous war); 11 pages in, one chapter in the can, and I'm only 12 years into this 'century' of angsty shit... *cries* I really didn't want to commit to a long serial!

I stayed pretty serious and in the zone when I was writing, but when I came back through on review and editing, as I went across Francis arguing with his king and saying 'You are not my king!' in my head I thought 'You're not my _real_ dad!' and started giggling. This chapter, so much teen-angst and teen-romance (the kind that's going to last forever and ever3!) and *guh* I don't want to revisit those years... Being a teenager _sucked!_


End file.
